We were just a breathe,
a little miracle.
The inocence look of a baby,
and the evil smile of the death.
We were music without sounds.
And magic, you were magic.
We were all the love that I had,
and you, you were here to burned it,
to burned me.
We were all the poems that I wrote,
all the memories that flashes in front my eyes,
and all the white lies, resting on my back.
We were only you,
and now,
I know.
And I know too,
the only problem,
wasn't me.
The only perfection,
wasn't you.
